Typeset
by Aggiebell
Summary: Darcy Lewis takes on an inanimate object, and things don't go so well for her...until they do.


**Author's Notes:** Written for my very own mini-Camp Nano, for the prompt "typewriter." Many thanks to Mollywheezy and Sherylyn for the beta. 3

Also… this is a new fandom for me. Eep.

_I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit._

_~ P. G. Wodehouse_

"Damn it!" Darcy muttered under her breath as she glared at the stupid piece of equipment on her desk. "Why can't I do this? It can't be _that_ hard." She grabbed the offending piece of paper, with its letters slanted on the page and its crumpled corner, and pulled it out of the typewriter in front of her. "Pathetic."

"What's pathetic?"

Darcy jumped at the voice coming from the door…entrance…_whatever_…to her cubicle, her flailing arm knocking her coffee cup to the floor, spilling the dregs on her desk on its way down.

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to scare you."

Darcy sighed. Steve. Of _course_ it was Steve. It couldn't be Clint or Tony or Bruce or any number of the men she saw on a daily basis. Oh, no, it had to be _him._

Okay, so she had a _bit_ of a crush on him. A _teeny, tiny_ crush. She could admit it, if only to herself. Besides, who in their right mind would blame her? Not only was he, well…_hot,_ he was… he was… _Steve_.

_He was also,_ she reminded herself, _Captain America_. _What she needed to do was be professional. She could do that. _

"It's fine, Captain," she said, grabbing a leftover napkin and mopping ineffectually at the brown spots on the papers on her desk. "Just a little coffee."

_See? Professional. _She gave herself a mental pat on the back_._

"Steve," he said. She quirked her eyebrow at him. "Call me Steve. I thought we'd gotten past that already."

_Which is why she needed to be professional, damn it._

"All right," she said. He gave her an encouraging look. _Oh, what the hell._ "Steve."

His smiled at her use of his name. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Other than the fact that I just spilled this cold, hours-old sludge that masquerades as coffee all over this stack of reports that I have to have on Alvarez's desk before I leave tonight?"

"Yeah, um… Sorry? I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me." _Okay, so she was a liar. So what?_ He narrowed his eyes at her. _Fantastic. She'd lied to Captain America, and he was going to call her on it._ "Much," she amended. "You mostly just…startled me."

"Startled," he said, smirking. "Uh-huh."

_Fuck. _She hated being wrong-footed like this. And his smirk wasn't helping things, either, judging by the way the butterflies in her stomach just took flight.

_Be professional, Lewis,_ she reminded herself_._ That's what she needed to do, right? Because there's no way her little crush was ever going to go anywhere other than her dreams. He was Captain-fucking-America, and she was… well.

She squared her shoulders, tossed the dirty napkin she'd been using to mop up the spilled coffee into the trash, and turned to face him, plastering a fake smile on her face. "How can I help you, Captain?"

He grinned at her, and the expression on his face told her he knew exactly what she was trying to do. _Damn him._ "I told you to call me Steve."

She'd just conveniently ignore that comment, she thought.

"So, what's pathetic?" he asked again when she didn't answer. "You sounded like you were having a little trouble."

She grimaced. "You could say that." She gestured at the piece of equipment on her desk. "It's this thing. It hates me."

"It's a typewriter."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." She held up her hand when he looked like he was about to tell her to use his first name again. "I know what it is, Steve," she snapped. "I just don't know how to use it."

He blinked.

"Oh, stop it. I know the general gist of it. Put the paper in here," she said, pointing to the top of the machine, "roll this thingy—"

"The platen," he supplied helpfully.

"Right, whatever. Roll it so the paper's in the right spot, adjust it right or left as needed, and type.

"So what's the problem?"

"The _problem_ is that I have these reports—" she gestured to the stack of papers on her desk—"about a mission a certain group of individuals participated in last week that might or might not have destroyed a portion of Central Park." Steve had the grace to look a little guilty at that, she noticed. She pressed on. "Reports that have to be filled out, in _triplicate_. And because this is S.H.I.E.L.D., and not the real world, they have to be done on a typewriter. A _typewriter!_ Because for _some_ reason, S.H.I.E.L.D. refuses to join the modern age and digitalize everything like the rest of the world does."

"I…see."

"Do you? Do you _really_?" she asked. "Do you see how _many_ of these forms have to be filled out? In _triplicate_?" She could hear her voice rise and took a calming breath. "I've been trying for the past 20 minutes to feed this one page in here, and every time I try, it either ends up crooked or wrinkled or torn, or the damn keys stick and I lose letters."

"I could help," he offered.

She gave him a skeptical look.

"Darcy. I know how to type."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you've been spending too much time with Stark and Barton," he said, shooing her out of her chair and taking her place. He glanced at her, his eyes twinkling. "It _is_ plugged in, right?"

She glared at him. "Don't be a smart ass, Steve. It doesn't become you."

And yes, she was lying to Captain America. Again. She was _so_ going to hell. Because Steve Rogers and snark? It _totally_ became him.

He flashed her a blinding smile. "Whatever you say, Darcy."

"Shut up and show me how to use this thing," she grumbled. _Damn him and his smirk and his snark and his smile._

"Okay, so, you put the form in upside down, with the front facing away from you, see?

"I know that much," she said. "It's the next part that gives me problems. How do I get it lined up so I can actually type in the blanks and not out in the margins or something?"

"Turn the knob—or you can use the return key on this one—until you get to the right spot. Use the space key or backspace to move it side to side until you get it in the right place. This part's a little tricky," he admitted. "It's hard to get what you're typing to line up correctly so it's in the right spot on the form. It just takes practice."

"I don't—"

"You don't what? Have time to practice? Are you going to have to keep filling out these forms? Will there be more, the next time we assemble?" he asked, cutting off her protest, "And will you have to do them in triplicate? Because if you answer yes, then thirty minutes of practice now will save you days of agony later. "

"Fine," she grumbled. "I'll practice. But only if you let me take you to dinner tonight."

"Darcy…"

"I won't take no for an answer, Steve. It's the least I can do to repay you."

He sighed. "All right."

"Thanks, Steve," Darcy said when she finally finished her last report. She wouldn't call it painless, exactly, but it hadn't been horrible, once she was no longer being outsmarted by an inanimate object. Plus, you know, the man keeping her company certainly helped make it more bearable. She stacked the completed papers neatly on her desk.

"Anytime, Darcy."

"So… dinner?" she asked.

"Dinner," he agreed, pulling the chair out for.

"Such a gentleman," she teased, enjoying the way his lip quirked. "You know," she said as she gathered her things, "you never did tell me why you came to my office this afternoon. I refuse to believe you came all the way down here to help me figure out how to use a typewriter." She watched as his expression turned sheepish. "You didn't, did you?"

"Maybe?"

"Is that an answer or a question, Steve?"

"Yes?"

"Yes, that's an answer, yes that's a question, or yes, you came to my office to help me win a battle against the tyrannical typewriter?"

He shrugged. "Clint told me you were having problems, and I figured... Well, I figured I knew what to do to help, and…"

"Wait. How did Clint know I was fighting with the typewriter?" she demanded.

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

"He was spying on me, wasn't he?" She looked suspiciously up at the ceiling, her eyes narrowed. "Why am I asking that? Of course he was spying on me." She looked at Steve. "You know what? Never mind. I'll take care of him later. What were you saying?"

" Well, he told me—"

"That the typewriter and I were having words and I was losing?"

"That it was being uncooperative and you were getting frustrated, yes," he said, grinning. "And while the computers around here occasionally outsmart me, I actually _do_ know how to use a typewriter, from… before. So, yes, I did come find you to see if I could help. But that's just a coincidence, since I was looking for an excuse to come see you, anyway. I was wondering if you had dinner plans." He shot her a sideways look as he escorted her into the cubicle farm outside her office, his hand warm against her lower back.

"Oh."

"That's all you've got to say? 'Oh?'"

"Really?"

He rolled his eyes at her. "_Yes,_ Darcy, really. Do you honestly think someone could make me do something I don't want to do?"

She was grinning like an idiot, she knew it, but she couldn't help herself. Leaning closer to him, she linked her arm through his. "_Well_, Captain—" she teased.

"Steve," he replied, his own grin growing.

"Steve," she said, moving closer to him.

Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D.'s typewriter requirement wasn't so archaic after all.


End file.
